


only stars are guiding me back

by twashoranshewrote



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blowjobs, Broken Engagement, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Smutty, all the boys and everyone else are minor characters, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:43:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6393091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twashoranshewrote/pseuds/twashoranshewrote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one in which Harry and Niall were engaged but now they can't get their shit together, until they do.</p><p>-title from "Running" by James Bay (excellent song that I recommend you listen to)</p><p>find me on tumblr @ nialls-hat (previously twashoranshewrote)</p>
            </blockquote>





	only stars are guiding me back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [outwardbound93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outwardbound93/gifts).



> Dedicated to @outwardbound93 for constantly inspiring me.  
> Also, this is only my second fic so be gentle.

January

Harry can’t sleep. It’s been so long since Harry’s been alone that he’s forgotten how to be. He can’t smell his shampoo on his pillowcases anymore. The scent of his laundry detergent doesn’t linger in the sheets with the sweat and familiarity of Harry’s cologne. Everything about the bed, the room, the house, it reeks of Niall. But it’s just Harry and it’s Harry’s fault really, because he never told Niall. He never told Niall all the things he should have, and now he’s alone. He’s as empty as his bed that smells like his own mistakes. Where the scent of Niall’s shampoo used to be, it’s cheap perfume from another blonde that doesn’t get Harry’s heart racing the way Niall always as, always will. He can imagine the headlines in the morning, the ones he knows will reach Niall. But Niall is gone and Harry is alone and it’s Harry’s fault. 

He’s never been very good at the commitment thing, but it’s never mattered. Not until Niall. With everyone else, they’d gotten bored or sick of the whirlwind of everything. Harry couldn’t promise them normalcy or routine, and Niall never asked for it. Niall would never ask for it. All he ever asked for is Harry, the truest and most pure form of Harry. That’s all he ever asked for, and Harry could have given it to him. He could have given Niall the world but he didn’t. And now Niall is gone and Harry is alone and it’s Harry’s fault. 

He wants to cry and he wants to scream but he’s done it all already. He’s screamed until his throat couldn’t take it anymore, and then he did it some more. He’s cried until his eyes didn’t have any tears left to give, and then it was just choked sobs without anything to show for them. And Harry’s never had his heart broken. With Taylor, he thought he may have been heartbroken at first, because it did hurt. It hurt so bad that his chest was tight with it and he barely made it through the first few shows afterwards. But it was Niall who hugged him a little extra longer, and it was Niall who crawled into his bunk those first few nights when Harry was just trying his best to keep it together. But this is real heartbreak. Niall isn’t here to hug him longer or cuddle him until his mind has slowed enough to sleep it off. Because Niall is gone and Harry is alone and it’s Harry’s fault. 

It’s been three days of this, Harry sulking in bed from the time he wakes up ‘till the time the sun goes down and only dragging himself out long enough to let another long-legged model into his place in Los Angeles. Before that, it was weeks of him sleeping in a new bed every night because he couldn’t stomach the idea of sleeping in their bed with someone that isn’t Niall. And then the pictures surfaced and Harry saw the bottom of too many glasses of whatever the bar would pour him. Suddenly it didn’t matter who was in bed with him as long as it was a warm body that didn’t smell like him. Because the house itself is a living and breathing memory of Niall. He’s in the photos on the walls, the teacups in the cabinet downstairs, the beer stain on the rug in the living room. 

And because it’s been nearly a month since Niall left, Harry should know it’s only a matter of time before the other lads come to check up on him, no matter how angry they are with him because they’ve always been like brothers, for better or worse. He thinks it’s Liam’s feet heavy on his staircase, though they all have a key to his place. A decision he’s starting to regret when his satin sheets are pulled off his body and dropped to the floor. 

“Harry, I get that you’re feeling really sorry for yourself these days but if you picked up your phone once in a while, you’d know that you’ve missed about a dozen meetings and now it’s my phone that’s ringing.” And it is Liam, though it’s been a while since Harry’s heard his voice somewhere other than on the telly. 

“It doesn’t matter anyhow,” Harry groans into his pillow. 

“Get your sorry arse out of bed and get in the shower.” 

After all this time, Harry knows better than to argue with Liam, of all people. He’s stubborn and he’s argumentative and most of the time he’s too damn proud to admit when he’s wrong but this time is different. Harry knows what he’s done wrong, and it’s not like the times before where it’s just been a media diversion to get rid of his name in the headlines. This is Niall, and he can’t just smile for a couple sick kids and hope this one will go away. And it’s worse, it’s so much worse because he can feel the bits of his splintered heart poking every which way and he can only imagine how Niall’s feeling. 

He hasn’t heard anything in weeks. Hasn’t seen anything online since the pictures three days ago. But Niall didn’t look the way Harry feels. He was all smiles and overgrown hair and pink cheeks and hooded, drunk eyes. He wasn’t hair in desperate need of a wash, stubble that hasn’t been taken care of in half a month, or a shattered glass somewhere down in the kitchen. The kitchen that still feels more like Niall and less like Harry. 

It’s probably because when Harry was looking at places out here, it was Niall who chose this one. Harry can still feel his arms around his waist and his pink lips pressed behind his ear, whispering about how this place is perfect. Perfect for Harry, and perfect for them. He still loves the granite countertops and wood floors, but they’re Niall’s countertops and Niall’s floors. Harry hasn’t touched the room since Niall left. Niall was always a better cook anyways. A better everything if he’s honest. 

Harry’s never deserved Niall’s sunshine. He’s never deserved the bright light and even brighter smile. He’s never deserved his warm heart and the butterfly kisses peppered across his collarbones. Harry is a shadow, and he’s never deserved Niall’s light. But Niall has always given it to him anyways, without a second thought and Harry used to be grateful, before the weight of it all fell on him, on them. Niall asked him if he meant it, and he said no. He didn’t mean it, but it’s what he said and Niall was out the door within the hour, no trace of him left. Except the traces that Niall couldn’t just pick up on his way out the door. There are some traces that are ingrained so deep that Harry can’t scrub them from the walls. 

“I’ll make you some tea or somethin’. Just, for the love of God, please go shower. You stink to high heaven, Styles.” Liam leaves him alone then, his footsteps disappearing back down the stairs. It’s odd, having Liam here. He’s been in Los Angeles since after Christmas and Harry hasn’t seen him outside of the studio. But Harry hasn’t even seen the studio in over half a month. 

He got himself out of bed long enough to go to work during the first week, when he was still writing for a couple of lads who moved out to Hollywood to live their dreams after uni didn’t work out well enough for the both of them. But then Niall never came back, and Harry became more acquainted with his answering machine than he’d been in the last five years. Niall had only ever missed a handful of Harry’s calls in those years, and he’d always returned them. He’s always been good like that, if none of the other boys were. But Harry ruined it, him. At least the version of Niall they’ve known for the last five years. 

Harry hears Liam moving about downstairs, rummaging through the cupboards, but he won’t find what he’s looking for because Niall’s always had this thing about keeping his tea leaves in the fridge. But Harry strips down and lugs his tired limbs to his shower anyways. Anything to get them off his back. He turns it up all the way. He wants to feel the water hot on his back, burning and washing away the past few weeks. He wants to forget everything that’s led up to this. But no matter how many nights he’s spent pissed off his feet, it’s Niall’s blue eyes that he sees on the back of his eyelids at the end of the night, no matter which body is next to him. 

The water burns his skin, sears across the scratch marks littered across his back and shoulders. It’s a good kind of burn, the kind that reminds him that he’s the one who destroyed them. His back aches in the places it always has. He rinses the last of the conditioner from his hair that’s grown past his collarbones now and wraps it up into a towel before slipping into his pants. His skin is still damp and taut from the scalding water when he finds Liam in the kitchen. 

“Got in a fight with a bear, did you?” He nods at the marks covering Harry’s shoulders. 

“You should see the other guy,” Harry says, forcing out an empty laugh. But Liam’s frown just deepens and Harry still feels as cold as he did before the shower. It’s got nothing to do with the aircon in the house though, and everything to do with the ice that’s crawled into Harry’s chest.

“What are you doing Harry?” Liam asks after a silence far too long to be comfortable. He won’t even look at Harry. 

“I don’t know.” 

“I’m not doing this for you, you know? I didn’t come here for you.” 

Harry’s known it since the moment Liam let himself into the house that he’s not here because he cares how Harry’s doing. What he’s here for is something unknown to Harry, but he’s not here for the long-legged boy that can barely keep his head on straight these days. 

“I know,” he says slowly. “Why are you here?” 

Liam huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose between his two fingers. “As much as I’d rather let you rot here and wallow in self-pity, Niall called,” he admits. 

“Niall called you?” Harry can’t help the hope laced in his voice. It’s just that he can delude himself into believing he hasn’t completely mucked everything up if Niall still cares enough to call Liam. 

“He said you might not care about the image of the band anymore, but he does. And I do. And you can’t destroy it over a couple nights with models you won’t remember six months from now,” Liam says, still staring at the teacup of hot water in front of him. Despite the tension in the kitchen, Harry has to smile a little, because at least he was right about the tea leaves in the fridge. 

“They’re in the fridge.” 

“What are you on about?” Liam finally looks up at Harry like he’s lost his damn mind. And he supposes that maybe he has, because every thought leads back to Niall. His mind is screaming out for him, for the only person Harry thinks he’s ever been in love with. 

“Niall keeps the tea leaves in the fridge,” Harry says. Liam’s face falls even more. 

“Harry,” he starts, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s the one in pain. 

“I’ll stay out of the papers,” Harry says instead.

Liam runs both his hands over his face, looking like he’s trying his very hardest not to scream or throw something at the boy across the kitchen from him. But Harry almost wishes he would, scream at him that is. He needs it. He needs someone other than the voice in the back of his head to tell him exactly what he’s done. He needs someone to tell him that it’s his entire fault. He needs someone to tell him that Niall’s a mess and that Harry needs to fix it. He needs someone to tell him that if he doesn’t fix it, he’s going to lose Niall for good, because Harry is quite sharp but he’s also quite dumb sometimes, and this is one of the times where Liam just wants to hit him over the head and tell him to grow up. 

“Christ’s sake Har, that’s not what I meant.” 

“I hear you Liam, loud and clear.” Harry rummages through the fridge until he finds the lot of tea leaves that haven’t been moved in over a month. In fact, most of the food in the fridge has either been expired for weeks or is on the brink of going expired. Harry hasn’t been able to eat, much less clean out the kitchen. Everywhere he looks or touches, it’s just Niall. His mind screams his name over and over again until Harry can’t do anything but crawl back under his comforter, the one he bought the first week, the one that doesn’t smell like Niall’s cologne or the laundry detergent he buys especially for his sensitive skin. 

Liam throws his hands onto the countertops and it’s enough to startle the canister of tea from Harry’s hands. It’s suddenly too bright in the kitchen he used to love. The air is thick with something he can’t quite put his finger on, but Liam is glaring at him and his skin is crawling because Liam has always been the calm one, the sensible one. He’s the one Harry can count on when his emotions have gotten the better of him, because he won’t give him a cuddle or a coddle, but he’s warm and he’s stable. He’s the color green and it keeps Harry grounded because Harry is the color purple. But now Liam is the color red and Harry can’t stand still under his gaze. His instinct is to run but Liam’s arms are a barricade on the counter and there’s no other way out. 

“Harry, I know that you’re going through a rough patch,” he starts. And really, rough patch is a bit of an understatement if the state of his bedroom is any indication, with empty bottles littered across the floor and the smell of perfume lingering in places it should have been never been. “But you need to get it together mate. You’re a right mess. And Niall isn’t here to take care of you but I sure as hell won’t do it. Louis would tell you to grow up, which is pretty rich coming from him.” 

He’s right. If they had been speaking since promo finished before the end of the year, Louis would tell Harry to grow up because he’s the one getting ready to be a father and Harry’s just nursing a broken heart the only way he’s ever known. Drown it. 

“How is he?” Harry asks, still maintaining a safe distance from the brown-eyed boy he used to turn to when he felt like everything was just too much. 

“He’s miserable,” Liam says after a bit of silence. “And you don’t even deserve to know that as far as I’m concerned.” 

Harry has always known that if it came down to it, there would never be sides to choose, because it’s unspoken that everyone’s on Niall’s side. It’s been that way since he was a sixteen year old boy with fake blonde hair and crooked teeth who charmed the entirety of the world with just smile. But with Liam in the kitchen that feels too much like Niall, looking at Harry like a complete stranger, it stings more than it should. And it’s Harry’s fault. He’s gotten himself into this mess and he’s past the point of having the opportunity of getting himself out of it. 

“You know if you wait too long, you’ll lose the chance to get him back,” Liam says quietly. 

“I think I’ve already lost it.” 

 

x

 

Harry can’t work. He’s been in the studio for something like four hours and the most he’s written is his lunch order on an old receipt. There’s a nineteen year old girl waiting in the wings for a song that he hasn’t been able to write because everything he writes reeks of Niall. He’s tried fiddling around with music first, but he can’t pull himself out of minor chords and every lyric on the tip of his tongue is bitter to taste. He’s slipped out of the vacuum of depression left in Niall’s wake and slipped into something treacherous, something like anger. 

He’s pissed that Niall’s gone and he’s furious with himself for letting him walk out the door. He’s green with envy over the photos of Niall and Laura that seem to litter the internet every time Harry even bothers to check the news. More than anything, he’s angry that Niall’s taken Harry’s words with him. He’s taken his heart and his music and everything in between, and Harry is left with nothing but regret and shame and every other emotion that simmers in his stomach until it boils over and Harry is back in the gym, wailing on a sand bag until his knuckles are as bruised as his heart. 

So Harry’s pissed that he can’t even work, on top of not being able to sleep or eat or carry a conversation with anyone that isn’t his mother or sister. He’s pissed that he can’t step foot in his bedroom anymore because without the cloud of depression hanging over him, everything else is clearer and he can see every bit of Niall in the room. The empty bottles have been cleaned off the floor and his linens have been changed from the silk white ones that Niall liked so much to a set of green ones that remind Harry of the Cliffs of Moher which reminds him of Niall. Because everything goes back to Niall and Harry can’t shut it off. He can’t get his blue eyes and overgrown blonde-brown hair out of his mind, and he can’t stop the way his heart clenches every time he remembers that he’s not going to wake up next to his warm body again. He can’t fight how cold he is without Niall wrapped around him. He’s tried drowning himself in alcohol, in women, in music. But everything brings him back to Niall and he can’t take it anymore. 

He’s booking the next flight into Heathrow before he even realizes he’s doing it. 

 

x

 

“Harry Edward Styles.”

Harry groans and pulls his pillow over his head, though it doesn’t seem to stop Gemma from pulling his blankets off until he’s left in nothing but his pants and t shirt he hasn’t worn since he left for X Factor. It’s too tight and makes him feel a bit like he’s suffocating but it’s distracting enough to take away from the way he can’t quite breathe as well without Niall near him. 

“You have been home for three days and have yet to get your sorry arse out of this bed. Do I need to call your boyfriend and tell him what a lazy prat you’ve been?”  
It feels like months ago that Harry was home for the holidays, even though it was just shy of two weeks ago since he flew back out to LA, but he’s forgotten what Gemma sounds like when she’s all worked up. And he can’t blame her, because she drove in from London specifically for his visit and he was burying himself in his childhood bedroom before she even stepped through the front door with his case trailing behind her. She doesn’t know about Niall leaving, or the proposal and twenty four hour engagement. He hasn’t quite been able to think about it for longer than a few moments without getting all teary eyed, let alone talk about it. He knows that Gemma can tell when something’s happened because he’s always been shit at hiding his feelings. Wears his heart on his sleeve, you could say. But she’s the type to probe it out of him instead of asking flat out. 

And it’s a matter of time before the split is leaked to The Sun or US Weekly, so Harry just huffs and buries his face further into the mattress that’s too small for him now. “Maybe he would answer your phone calls,” he says, though it comes out muffled. 

“What was that?”

“He’s gone Gem. Won’t pick up the phone. If we were speaking, you don’t think I’d have been over to his already?”

He knows from Twitter that Niall’s been staying in his home in London since just after the New Year. It’s something that’s been in the back of his mind since he landed. 

“Oh bubba,” Gemma coos, crawling in the small space between Harry and the wall. He keeps his face turned away from hers, unwilling to see the pity swirling in the eyes that look too much like his. Her slender arms wrap as far as they can around him with his stomach flat against the mattress and she presses her cheek to the spot between his shoulder blades. “You’ve had a row before though, and you worked through it.” 

“Not like this,” he groans. He knows she won’t ask him for the specifics of what happened and he’s still not ready to talk about that night, so he doesn’t. Neither of them says anything as they lie next to each other in his too-small bed. It feels like hours before Anne calls them for dinner, which Harry finally makes it downstairs for. He eats his mother’s roast and drifts through the rest of the evening like there isn’t a hole in his chest where his heart should be. He plays Scrabble and drinks an evening cuppa and laughs about something Gemma’s boss said about her “popstar brother”, but it’s like everyone knows he’s not truly there. His eyes aren’t quite as green and his smile isn’t quite as large and his laugh isn’t quite as loud. Even though Gemma’s the only one who knows what’s missing, it’s like his mum and Robin have guessed anyways if the way they eye him cautiously all evening is any indication. 

But by the end of the evening, he finds himself curled up between sheets that shouldn’t remind him of Niall but do anyways, craving a pair of particularly lean arms around him. He doesn’t have it in him to cry, but he almost wishes he could instead of feeling the weight on his chest. He hasn’t even got his wits about him when he slips his wellies on and pulls a jacket over his jumper. 

It’s a long drive and it’s nearly midnight when he pulls up in front of the familiar house. He thinks he could drive here in his sleep with how many times he’s made the drive over the last few years, since Niall bought the house really. But there are a few other cars in the drive and Harry has the entire walk up it to think about what he’s doing. But he doesn’t think about it. He’s running on autopilot and his hands are shaking and he’s bloody freezing because it’s January in London but all he can think about is Niall, Niall, Niall. It’s like muscle memory, fumbling with the spare key on his ring, before he remembers that it’s not his key to use anymore. And it’s his fault. 

So he rings the bell and his eyes have gone misty by the time the door opens. Even without the blinds drawn, Harry can see the lights on downstairs and in the room he knows oh so well. But it’s not Niall at the door. It’s Laura and her cheeks are pink and her lips are wet and Harry can smell the beer on her breath. She’s stumbling and laughing and then she’s not and her eyes are on Harry, her lips parted and her hands suddenly steadier on the doorknob. “Harry,” she breathes, her eyes darting back into the house. 

“Is he here?” It’s a rather stupid question, because of course Niall is here. It’s his house and his car is parked in the drive. 

“Harry it’s late and,” Laura tries, but Harry’s already moving past her. It’s not his place. He doesn’t live here, he has to remind himself. But it’s too late and Harry’s running on autopilot and he just needs to see Niall. He needs to touch him and feel that he’s still real, that they were real and that Harry didn’t imagine all of that. He needs Niall to remember. He needs Niall. 

Niall’s standing at the counter when Harry finds him, laughing with Willie and Olly. He’s all pink and happy and already absolutely pissed. But then his eyes fall on Harry, who’s still got his coat and wellies on. Harry, who’s tracked snow through half his house. Harry, who’s staring open-mouthed at him. The room falls silent and Harry’s hyperaware of how heavily he’s breathing, like he finally remembers how to now that he’s this close to Niall. 

“Harry,” Niall breathes, his voice tight. “What are you doing here?” 

Willie and Olly exchange a quick glance before they’re taking their pints into the living room, leaving Harry and Niall alone. Harry’s mind is reeling with everything he’s wanted to say in the month Niall’s been gone. But he can’t filter his thoughts fast enough and Niall is just staring at him like he’s grown a second head. And Harry can’t blame him because it’s midnight and he just drove hours in the middle of a heavy snow. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” Niall has his bottom lip pulled between his teeth and his fingers wrapped around the glass in his hands. 

“Ni, please.” Harry is still standing in a doorway he doesn’t belong in anymore, in a house that feels foreign to him. 

“Harry, did you drive here from your mum’s place?” It’s like Niall notices the dark circles under Harry’s eyes then. It’s like he notices the way Harry can barely hold himself upright and the way Harry’s skin has paled since he last saw him. Maybe he can see how much weight he’s lost. Either way, his face goes soft and he just runs his hands over his face. 

“I needed to see you,” Harry chokes out, his throat thick with panic. 

“Just, fuck. Give me a minute.” And then Niall’s gone and Harry’s alone. His beer is left on the counter, and he can hear Niall mumbling in the next room. Then everyone is saying goodbye and Niall is calling a car for them. It’s a few minutes before Harry can hear the front door shut and Niall’s footsteps in the hall. Harry’s tired and Niall looks near sober when he comes back into the kitchen. Without anyone else here to buffer the tension, it weighs on them both, so thick Harry could cut it with a knife. 

Now that Niall’s here in front of him, he’s got no idea what to say to him. He wants to tell him that he’s sorry and beg for his forgiveness. He wants to tell him that he knows he’s been in the papers but none of them meant anything to him. He wants to tell Niall that he tried everything to give Niall his space but he can’t get him out of his head. But he can’t get the words from his head to his mouth and he’s choking on them. They’re stuck in his throat with his breath and he feels like he’s drowning. 

“You can sleep in the spare room and head back in the morning,” Niall says when Harry doesn’t say anything. 

“Can we talk?” 

Niall pinches the bridge of his nose like the way he does when he’s asked about Zayn in an interview. “It’s past midnight and I’m not sober enough.” He sounds as tired as Harry feels. 

“I miss you.” 

There’s an uncomfortable silence that settles between the two of them. Harry wants to take it back, swallow the words back up, because the look on Niall’s face is pained and Harry’s seen it before. He saw it the day Zayn gathered them to announce his leaving, and the day they all agreed not to renew their recording contract. He saw it the day Harry let him leave, and he doesn’t like the way a frown sits on his face. 

“I can’t do this Harry,” Niall’s voice breaks. There's a time of finality to Niall's voice, one that Harry would recognize anywhere.

He knows it's half past midnight and Niall's house is the last place he should be, but Harry's always believed in the idea that sometimes you meet someone, and your heart latches onto them and suddenly it's not a conscious decision whether or not they'll stay in your heart. They either do or they don't and Harry reckons that Niall is that person for him, the person who Harry will always go back to, because he's Niall and Harry is Harry and it doesn't make sense but they've never made sense either.

When they were just tangled limbs and cuddles and whispers in dressing rooms, there was no rhyme or reason to anything they did. And once they became hand holding and kisses in broad daylight and public dates, there was never a moment where Harry thought everything had begun to make sense. It wasn't until seconds after Niall walked out the door, dropping Harry's ring onto the kitchen table, that Harry felt it all fall into place. 

But it was too late by then and Harry was scared and he's never been very good at facing things head on. His instinct is to run, to escape problems until they go away. But the problems between he and Niall are the kind that don't go away if you sweep them under the rug or tuck them into a drawer in the back of the wardrobe.

Niall was ready and Harry was scared. He didn't run, but he thinks he would have if Niall would have given him the chance. But Harry wasn't scared because he wasn't ready. Quite the opposite actually. And Harry didn't know that until the door shut behind Niall and he was left alone. It was never commitment he was scared of, it was abandonment. It's always been there in the confines of his mind, the notion that he's not good enough for Niall, that he will never been good enough for Niall. Niall is sunshine and Harry is partly cloudy on a good day. 

So it's been in the back of Harry's mind since the beginning, probably since the night Niall crawled into his bunk and gave him a proper snuggle, nipping at his earlobe when he thought Harry had drifted off. And Harry thinks it's easier to cope with being left by his boyfriend than it would be to cope with being left by his fiancé or husband. He's been the kid in the middle of a divorce and remarriage and he and Niall talked about kids. Harry's promised himself he won't repeat his parents' mistakes, and he's only twenty one but he feels so beyond his years already. 

Harry can remember the plan he'd thought up in primary school. He thought he would get married to a pretty lady and have two kids and a cat, because he's always preferred cats. And it's laughable now. He's twenty one, standing in his ex-boyfriends house, thinking on all the things he could have done differently over the last years. For starters, he probably wouldn't have started fooling around with one of his best mates. There's no part of him that regrets Niall because the entirety of him knows that he will always be in love with him, but if he could go back, he might save them both the pain of having one another and losing one another. 

Harry is twenty one, has earned enough to live comfortably the rest of his life, with properties around the globe. But all he wants is Niall. He wants to hold Niall and kiss Niall but most of all, he wants to marry Niall. He wants to promise to love him for the rest of their lives. And he wants to figure out the best way for them to have children. And he wants a cat, still. 

It wouldn't be difficult, to just tell Niall all of this. But Harry's been selfish with him for far too long and he can see the dark circles under his eyes now. He can see the way Niall can barely keep his eyes open. And he's exhausted too. He’s dead on his feet and he knows it’s more dangerous to drive back to his mum’s place than it is to stay in this house. So he looks at the boy who has his heart and he nods, because there’s nothing left for him to do. And Niall shows him to the guest room, though Harry hasn’t forgotten where it is and Harry drifts asleep in the bed the smells like linens when you first buy them, all stale and full of chemicals. He thinks he might already be dreaming when he feels Niall’s lips on his forehead. 

 

February

Harry loves birthdays, always has. Twenty two is no exception. He spends the week of his birthday at his mum’s place with Gem and Robin. His phone’s been buzzing every few seconds, it seems like, with tweets and texts and calls. He’s tried to keep up with it as best he can but it seems like his birthday, similarly to the last five he’s had, is the time of year where everyone he’s ever spoken to finally remembers he exists. He hasn’t even got some of the numbers saved in his phone, but they’re wishing him a happy birthday and he’s thanking them, whoever they are.

He’s been waiting for the only call that matters, and just when it seems like it won’t come, his phone rings and a photo of he and Niall from a show in Dublin last fall lights up the screen. Gemma pretends she doesn’t notice, and Anne doesn’t blink an eye when he excuses himself to the backyard. There’s snow covering the back porch and it’s absolutely freezing, but Harry picks up the call and holds his phone close to his ear. 

“Ello?” He asks tentatively. 

“Haz.” Niall’s drunk. From the giggling in the back and the way Niall’s breathing heavily into the phone, Harry knows he’s near toasted. “You’re twenty two, and I’m twenty two. We’re both twenty two.” And despite Niall slurring his words and screaming into his phone, Harry has to smile because he can imagine the way Niall’s cheeks have probably gone pink now, and the way his eyes are probably hooded and his limbs probably loose. 

“Yeah, I suppose we are.” Harry kicks at the snow under his feet. His slippers are already covered and his socks have gone damp but nothing else matters but the boy on the other end of the phone. “You been out with the lads?” He asks, because he simply can’t help himself. 

“I can’t talk to you if I’m not drunk. Hurts too much,” Niall hiccups, his voice taking on that tone it does when he’s had a few too many and all he wants is a cuddle. And Niall’s right, it does hurt too much. 

“Baby,” Harry starts, but it doesn’t taste right on his tongue. “Ni, I’m sorry.” He’s apologized a thousand times, but it never seems like enough anymore. 

“I know you are.” Niall’s quiet now. The giggling is gone, and Harry imagines Niall has stepped outside the pub to lean against a brick wall, pressing his cheek to it to relieve some of the heat spreading across his face and down his neck. “I called to wish you a happy birthday.” 

“Thank you,” Harry says because he’s not sure what else he can say.

“You’d do the same for me.” 

“Yeah, I would Ni.”

“I love you, you know?” 

Harry feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. He hasn’t needed his inhaler in so long but he stumbles back into the house anyways and moves quickly up the stairs to his room where it is tucked in the bottom of his case. 

“Haz, baby, breathe.” 

It’s funny really, how easily they fall back into it. Maybe that’s why Niall had to come back to London to get space, because even an ocean isn’t enough to keep them apart. But Harry isn’t breathing and his hands are frantically rummaging through his case before they land on the cool metal tin. And his phone is forgotten on the floor when he presses the plastic piece to his mouth and pumps the medicine into his mouth. He needs two puffs on it and then he’s got his forehead buried in the carpeted floor and he can hear Niall panicking on the other end of the phone. 

“Harry, oh god.” It sounds like he might be crying, but Harry knows him well enough to know he’s not. 

“Ni baby, I’m okay. I’m here. I’m okay.” He can feel the tension in his chest melting away. 

“I’m sorry Harry. I’m so sorry.” Harry’s not so sure Niall’s just talking about the last five minutes. He thinks this is what everything has been leading up to, the last month and a half. 

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

“I miss you. I should have told you that, when you were here. I just, fuck, Haz. What are we doing?” 

“I don’t know. But I miss you too Niall. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t write.” Harry’s properly crying, the kind of tears he hasn’t been able to get out since that first week, where he felt like his heart had been ripped right out of his chest. 

“I need to see you, talk to you without this bloody phone in the way.” 

“You’re drunk, and it’s half eleven. I’ll come to you. Just a couple days and I’ll come to London and we can talk. Okay baby?” 

“Okay Harry.”

x

It’s three days before Harry makes it to London. It’s three days of walking around with his heart in his stomach and his stomach where his heart should be. It’s three days of convincing Gemma that he’s doing the right thing by going to see Niall. There’s doubt in her eyes when he packs his case up and hugs her goodbye at the front door. But she hugs him nonetheless, and Anne pretends like she’s got no clue what’s going on, because even though Harry is her baby boy, he’s also old enough to take care of himself. He’s old enough to take care of his heart, and she knows Niall will guard it with his life if he’s given the chance. 

It’s never been Niall that she worries about. 

Harry’s got his hands shoved into the pockets of his ripped jeans when Niall answers the door. There’s a slice of pizza hanging out of his mouth and a few days’ worth of stubble on his chin. And really, all Harry can think about is how beautiful he looks, with pizza sauce stuck to the corner of his mouth and the front of his tee shirt tucked into the front of his trackies. 

“Hi,” Harry breathes out, because it feels like there’s nothing to say when in reality, there’s everything to be said. 

“Hi Haz.” And despite the tension settling between the two of them, Niall smiles and waves Harry in like nothing’s wrong. 

It almost pains Harry, the way Niall knows how he takes his tea. He has to remind himself that Niall spent nearly a year fixing his tea for him. An entire year. But now it’s been two months and Harry’s wondering how long they’ll just stand in the kitchen and drink tea like they haven’t spent the last two months apart. It’s only been two months but it feels like a lifetime and Harry can tell Niall’s been to the gym because where he used to be soft in the middle, he looks, well, less soft. There’s a definition in his arms that never used to be there, and it’s really hard you know. It’s hard for Harry not to think of everything else that’s changed in the last two months. But Niall wants, or at least wanted him here. 

“We need to talk,” he grumbles, despite himself. Part of him wants to put it off and go about their day like they didn’t say things they can’t take back. But the other part of him wants to get it over with. 

“I know,” Niall agrees, finishing off the pizza slice. “I’ve not stopped thinking about it the last few days.” 

“They never meant anything to me,” Harry blurts, and he doesn’t have to specify that he’s talking about all the models. He knows Niall has seen the papers. There’s no use in pretending none of it happened. The evidence is in print, and from the way Niall pinches the bridge of his nose, Harry knows he hasn’t forgotten either. 

“How’s Kendall?” Niall asks, because he can’t help it. It’s been on the tip of his tongue since the pictures came out. Everytime Harry rung his phone, the night Harry first showed up at his door. At first, he thought maybe it would be cruel, to use Kendall against Harry like that. But then another set of photos came out and Niall turned to the whiskey in his cabinet. The whiskey took the guilt away but left the hurt behind. 

“How’s Selena?” Harry counters, because he can’t help it either. He’s seen as many pictures as Niall. He’s read all the rumors, all the conspiracies. 

“That’s not fair.” Niall won’t meet Harry’s eye, looks to the marble countertops instead. 

“Don’t tell me about fair Niall.” 

This is what they’ve left unsaid the last two months. They’ve not talked about the proposal and everything since. 

“You said yes Harry. And then you took it back.” Niall’s voice shakes and it rattles something inside Harry. Niall’s the solid one, the stable one. He’s the dependable one. He’s not the emotional one, not the one who cries at documentaries about SeaWorld. 

“It was so fast. The break, the rumors, all of it. It was so fast.”

“Don’t make this about the band. The band was always going to be fine.” And Niall’s right. They were never afraid for the band. “But you got scared and got on a fucking yacht with your ex-girlfriend.” 

“That’s not what it was and you know it.” 

“So you weren’t fucking around with Kendall on a yacht? Because I’ve seen all the pictures Harry.” 

“She wasn’t my ex-girlfriend. We were never, I never, fuck.” Harry presses his fingers to his temples, trying to relieve some of the ache in his skull. 

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“You left!” Harry smacks his hands to the counter in front of him and the sound of his skin slapping against the stone is enough to make him cringe. But that’s not what does it. It’s the way Niall winces and takes a step back before Harry’s hands reach the counter, his eyes wide. Harry blanches. “What the hell was that Niall?”

“I-“

“Did you seriously think I was going to hit you?” Harry’s not angry anymore. He’s sick to his stomach with something he can’t quite place. There are tears in his eyes and his hands shake in front of him. And no matter the words lingering between the two of them, Niall grabs Harry’s hands anyways because he knows the mistake he’s made. He knows Harry would never lay a hand on him, and even though his reaction was only instinct, he knows Harry well enough to know exactly what’s running through his mind. 

“I know you would never.” Niall says quietly. He squeezes Harry’s hands before cupping his cheeks. His palms are rough, his fingertips calloused, but his lips are soft when they press against Harry’s chapped ones. 

Harry’s too stunned to move at first, afraid that he’s been dreaming all of it, but then Niall grips his face a bit tighter, like he’s scared to let Harry go. It’s only seconds before Harry’s fisting Niall’s tee shirt and pulling him closer, closer, closer. All of his senses go into hyper drive the moment he realizes that he’s kissing Niall. Like kissing him for real. 

There are a thousand things they need to talk about but Niall’s pulling Harry up the stairs to his bedroom and Harry’s tripping up the staircase. They find the wall in the hallway before they make it to the bedroom and Harry’s leg is slotted between Niall’s as he pins him to the wall. His arms cage him in. Their teeth knock together and it’s sloppy, the way their spit mingles between their mouths when Harry licks into Niall’s mouth. He curls his tongue around Niall’s, eliciting a sound Harry thought he might never hear again. But he does hear it, and it goes straight to his groin. It’s hungry and it’s messy. Niall’s hands are in Harry’s hair he’s tugging, tugging, tugging. 

Niall’s shirt falls to the floor along with Harry’s sweater once the boys pull apart long enough to get them over their heads. And Harry thinks he might never get used to the way Niall’s blunt, chewed, fingernails feel on his stomach. Every muscle underneath them contracts and Niall groans when Harry aligns his hips with his at just the right angle. Harry’s skin is boiling everywhere Niall’s hands are running across. He bites down too hard on Niall’s bottom lip and there’s a metallic taste when his tongue soothes the sting away. 

“Missed you,” Harry breathes against his neck before sucking a purple bruise into the milky skin. 

“You just missed my dick.” Niall tries to laugh but Harry palms him through his trackies and his laughter is lost to the loud groan that falls from his lips. Harry just slips his hand between his trackies and his pants, stealing the breath from his lungs. 

“I’m in love with you,” he whispers against Niall’s collarbone. He can feel the way Niall’s skin flushes under his lips. He bites at the skin, running his tongue over the freckles scattered across it. He nips at his neck, his shoulders, everywhere he can reach. He’s got his hand in Niall’s pants now, and he’s no stranger to the smooth skin of his cock. He’s rock hard and wet at the tip. It has Harry’s mouth nearly watering at the thought of getting his lips around Niall. 

“Harry,” Niall moans the second the brunette gets a hand around him, working him slowly so he can feel every bit of roughness in Harry’s hands from hitting the sandbags too hard. “Love you. Fuck, I missed you,” he pants into the crook of Harry’s neck. His already short breath is lost to Harry’s mouth the moment their lips connect again. Harry’s hands wander from Niall’s aching hard-on to the supple skin of his arse, forcing his hips against the blonde’s. 

“Bedroom,” Niall gasps as soon as he’s got enough air to, what with the way Harry keeps licking into his mouth like he’s trying to memorize the contours of it all over again. And in a way, he is. He’s learning Niall’s body, the flush of his skin, the press of his cock against his own. He’s getting reacquainted with the way Niall arches his entire body into his touch, or the way he gets so flustered that he’s nearly crying, begging for it by the time Harry finally drops to his knees. And although Harry would never admit it, that’s his favorite part. When Niall is nearly hysterical, and his knees hit the hardwood floor and there’s a sort of burn to it that nothing can ever quite compare to. The pain and the way Niall grips his hair, it’s overwhelming in the best way possible. 

“Want you like this. Want to devour you.” Harry’s voice pure filth, gravely and deep with want. It’s enough to have Niall nearly coming in his pants before Harry can even get his mouth on him. He’s impatient and his knees are too dodgy to count on when he can barely trust them on a good day, let alone when Harry’s head is between them. He’s flushed in every bit of him that Harry can see, from his cheeks to where his hips disappear into his pants. 

His head smacks against the wall, rattling the artwork from an artist he can’t remember the name of, when Harry strips him bare and gets his hand on him again. It’s all smooth, languid movements as he drags his fingertips across Niall’s skin, teasing gooseflesh from his thighs. And Harry simply can’t help it when he sucks a deep purple bruise into the pale, pale, pale skin of his inner thigh, coaxing groan after groan from Niall’s lips. It’s obscene, pornographic almost, the sound he makes when Harry wraps his filthy mouth around the tip, sucking just as hard as he had sucked on his thigh. He takes him to the back of his throat, eagerly pumping the rest of his thick length with his rough fingers. 

He reaches back, just enough to tease at Niall’s balls at the exact moment that he swallows around the tip. But that’s not what has Niall coming so hard down Harry’s throat that he almost chokes on it. It’s the look Harry gives him, peering up through his eyelashes like an innocent fucking schoolgirl that’s never even heard the word sex. His cheeks are pink and his lips are red and they’re covered in spit and come by the time he pulls of Niall, sputtering for lost breath. 

He plants a chaste kiss on either of Niall’s thighs before pushing off the ground and planting one right on his lips. It’s less of a kiss and more of the two breathing into each other’s mouths until their chests stop heaving and their heads stop spinning. 

“I didn’t stop loving you,” Harry mumbles into Niall’s neck, fucked out as if he were the one to receive the best head of his life. 

“I know you didn’t Haz. And I didn’t either, don’t think I could.” Niall’s voice is shaking with a combination of pent up emotion and the aftermath of a mind-blowing orgasm. And he’s tired, exhausted really, but he gets his hand down Harry’s trousers and works him through his own high lazily, like they’ve got all the time in the world. 

They don’t talk about Harry’s flight back to Los Angeles in three days, or the time they’ve spent apart. They whisper words of affection back and forth until they tire themselves out enough to sleep. And when they do sleep, they’re wrapped so tight around one another, too afraid to let go again. But if they’ve learned anything, it’s that their love is one that survives the tests and trials and errors. It’s everlasting.


End file.
